


Something Stupid

by FieryEclipse



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Episode: s04e17 The Wall, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Seasonal, that time of year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 07:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8881600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryEclipse/pseuds/FieryEclipse
Summary: It's Christmas – the time for family. The time for missing family that isn't here. Sylar wants to do something for the man he's hurt above all others, but it has to be something special. Something lasting, not just something that Peter wants, but something he needs that only Sylar can give him...





	

It's that time of year again. Except instead of festive cheer, cheesy songs and flashing decorations spanning the width and depth of every crevice of the city, there's nothing. Nothing at all.

 

It's the time of year that Sylar has been dreading for three hundred and sixty five days to be exact. It's not that he's a Scrooge or a Humbug or whatever – actually he _wants_ to be surrounded by Christmas spirit and holiday joy and annoying carols, and it's the fact that he is yet again deprived of them that makes him hate this day all the more.

 

Only his footsteps ring out through the gaping city streets as he trudges through the expanse of said nothingness. It's freezing and dark out here and the vastness of the city is compressing, but he'd rather keep moving than be cooped up inside again like last time.

 

It's not difficult to feel lonely here. Being imprisoned within a purgatory with merely one other lost soul tends to make it quite easy to feel insignificant and small. But somehow on this same day every year since he found himself here, the pain is always kicked up a notch or five. Sylar would like to think it was worse when he was alone... but really that's not true. At least back then he sat on his windowsill by himself, waving the holiday past while scanning the streets for any other sign of life, because there were no better options and no one else to share the occasion with. But now...

 

This month marks Peter's second December in this nightmare. Up until the awkward, dark area of the year starting around Thanksgiving (for, um, obvious reasons) and running until after Christmas, the pair have been doing quite well recently, Sylar is pleased to acknowledge. He wouldn't go so far as to call their relationship a “friendship” exactly, more “a developing union between possible ex enemies who don't desperately want to kill each other anymore”. At least it's progress, though. At least it's something. And then this fucking holiday had to come around again and mess everything up!

 

Family is the heart of Christmas, right? Of course Peter Petrelli would be so noble and predictable as to think so rather than live for the presents or food, and he had spared no effort in reminding Sylar of this ideal. It's not very pleasant, obviously, but truthfully he can't really be mad at Peter for not wanting to spend this “family holiday” with the person responsible for their pointed absence. The murderer in question kicks the ground and buries his hands deeper into his pockets, losing himself further in the crisp, cold but snowless labyrinth of the city. Somehow, it really does help to keep walking.

 

 _Family_... _Family_... the first connotations that come to mind are thoughts of expensive wine, loud laughter, bustling dinner tables and fancy music chiming through the vast rooms of the Petrelli mansion. Sure, these memories are disgusting pretences of love and care within the lies of this despicable bunch – and okay, they're not even Sylar's memories in the first place – but they're a hell of a lot better to look back on than his own holidays spent being dragged around every church in the vicinity at his mother's side, then sitting around a small, musky table for two in almost silence. And so, today, he has chosen to escape this numbing loneliness by disappearing into Nathan Petrelli's stolen recollections of the evasive treasure of family: Heidi, Angela, Monty, Simon... and Peter.

 

Just because the empath doesn't want to see Sylar today (that, he has made _very_ clear) doesn't mean that Sylar feels the same way. Thankfully, it also doesn't mean he _can't_ spend time with the man while keeping in line with his wishes. So today was still shared with Peter... in some way. In a different life.

 

Peter loves Christmas. Correction: loved. All friends and warmth and love and fondness – the holiday season was a jackpot for this otherwise emotionally starved being. Sylar remembers just how much his brother (no! No. Not _his_ brother...) had adored the occasion since he'd been a chubby-cheeked, bandy-legged toddler. As a kid he'd been the first one up in the morning and would fight (and fail) to be the last one asleep. As an adult, and not much of a drinker, he would actually end up quite merry by the end of the night due to Christmas being the one day a year he'd drink for the fun of it and not just at Arthur's insistence to blend in at parties and the like; however it was a combination of the wine, laughter and all the affectionate, familial Petrelli touching that was only amplified by the jolliest of seasons that went so quickly to his head. But no matter the age, no matter the intoxications, the consistent factor was that the guy never smiled as brightly as he did on December 25 th. Yes. Peter had always loved Christmas.

 

Until last year.

 

Sylar aches at the unwanted recollection of the nasty truth and blows into his red, frozen hands in a half-assed attempt to regain some feeling and movement. It's probably not wise to be out wandering the streets like this when nobody either knows, or cares, where he is. But whatever, he's not ready to return to his neglected, quietly ticking apartment and re-live the sensations of last Christmas. After three years completely alone here, Sylar had had to admit to himself that the prospect of spending the Time For Sharing with his unwitting companion had been a very agreeable one indeed! Quietly, he had romanticised the day in his mind, imagining what it might be like to actually participate in Peter's Christmas, even if there was nothing whatsoever but the two of them. As he'd been telling himself, it couldn't get any worse than the last three years...! Unfortunately, he might have been a tad premature with such thoughts. Three whole weeks of utter abandonment and crippling silent treatment later, and after a further fortnight of holiday blues filled with an embarrassingly frequent amount of fights, Peter had finally started returning to normal. _Started_.

 

This year, Sylar knows what to expect, he knows what's coming, and it makes it all so much worse. He doesn't very much fancy tiptoeing around a hormonal, heartbroken man with the mentality of a lion hyped on Hulk pills again. He just wants to be acknowledged. Is that really so much to ask...? Actually, yes, it is, and he knows it is. But that's not everything... more than catching a break from this torment, Sylar wants to cheer up Peter.

 

It's not entirely selfless: some human contact would hardly be torture, and he has hopes of sparing the prolonged after effects of Christmas like last year, but at the same time he really does want to help his companion. After reliving him dancing around the dining room with a similarly tipsy and laughing Angela, only a few measly years ago, it actually hurts to picture him crying alone tonight. Sylar knows somewhere out there in this city, right now, Peter is hurting. And he needs that seasonal care and affection more than ever.

 

The tall, lone figure cleaves his path through the undisturbed world, head bowed against the wind and feet carrying him along of their own accord. He feels like a dream, like Peter is always insisting this is. He feels ghostly, desperate for some reprieve from his actions and the damnation that he knows he brought on himself a thousand times over. It aches, but he deserves to be here. He earned this: to be cast aside and forgotten about, left to watch from afar this sacred day of love and life, of which he has neither, while enduring this rotting guilt and restlessness that he hoped uselessly all year wouldn't find him again, even if for just these twenty four hours. He recognises the tease of everything he ever wanted, everything he needs, being kept far out of his grasp but close enough to see. Close enough to strive for, in vain, because forgiveness will forever be unattainable.

 

It's his own fault, after all.

 

But it's not Peter's. The guy might be dangerously dense and destined to repeat the same mistakes over and over in his fruitless attempts to do what he thinks is best, but that's not enough to earn him a spot here in hell. He shouldn't have to suffer like Sylar does. _He_ didn't kill hundreds of innocent people with his bare hands.

 

...A good deed, performed even if underlined with the pathetic attempts to redeem oneself, should be worth something, shouldn't it? Say, if a wrongly imprisoned man was in desperate need of help, and the only person available to provide such help just happened to be condemned to an outcast life of isolation, surely it would be the right thing to do to help the first man? Even if it put the second's sentence on pause, temporarily?

 

It's this ingenious thought that is spreading a warmth through the remorseful killer's body more than gloves or a scarf or a hot cup of tea could, and he alights anew with the mere thought of this daring idea. He hasn't forgotten Peter's reminder that he isn't welcome nearby at the moment (how could he?) but he also hasn't forgotten the weary, weak and wounded look that had clung to the guy for ages last January. Sylar knew back then that he should have done something to try and stop it, but he hadn't. He doesn't want the man to fall into such despair again. And it's Christmas, so... if not now, when...?

 

His cold feet feel heavy as they keep Sylar roaming along until he sees that he's finally found the upper class part of the city. The buildings are more expensive here, more of them houses than places of work, and the gates in front of every path get grander further up the street. It only gets more daunting now that he's so close, now that he's treading this ingrained route that one stolen, half-formed part of him grew up on, but Sylar doesn't turn back.

 

It should be easy to walk, knock and confront Peter, but such simple bodily motions weigh so much more in meaning than they do design. Sylar wishes that he had a cool, funny or magnificent present to break the ice with, but he doesn't have anything to give besides comics, watches or books, and those kind of gifts are certainly not going to cut it. Not for this. It has to be something _special_ , something _lasting_ , not just something that Peter wants, but something he _needs_ that only Sylar can give him...

 

Tiptoeing around the shadow that the house has imprinted on the sidewalk, Sylar hesitates for a fraction of a second before taking that first step onto the garden path. He ignores the grand front door that used to welcome him home once upon a time, favouring instead the less conspicuous way in that Nathan would use as a teenager when he stumbled in drunk at five in the morning. It's not only that he's suddenly scared of crossing the hearth of the family he has slaughtered, or that he can't face the now dead, silent and empty rooms that he has been re-living all day as hearty and alive, no. Even though it's stupid – as Sylar's intention is to actually talk to the other occupant of this world – he can't help but worry his approach will be heard early and give away his position.

 

So Sylar trusts in the recollections of the Senator that he killed so long ago, and slinks around the side of the building, through the still perfectly maintained and pristine greenery, until the back garden looms into sight. It's bigger than Sylar had expected, bigger than Nathan remembered, and distinctly unfriendly in the dark. It takes a second before Sylar takes his next step, tainting this place that has so far remained untouched by his presence.

 

A good deed. It's a good deed. Even if at the moment it currently feels more like breaking and entering and tormenting the man who deliberately told him to stay away, it _is_ for a good cause... Sylar crosses the stretch of space towards the door with numb limbs, numb from nerves and anticipation this time however, not so much the cold. Thoughts of many immaculate yet hollow events and barbecues (and one particular family brunch) prickle at Sylar as he hurries past the table without looking and lets himself inside the house. The door isn't locked. He doesn't expect it to be. This place is only protected by a certain level of decency, an unspoken law that is supposed to do the job better than chains and a padlock. He wonders if Peter will beat him up for coming here...? It would be worth it anyway. Probably. Hopefully.

 

Thank god the house is dark, because that way Sylar doesn't have to try so hard not to peek at the surrounding environment. He can instead focus solely on creeping his way through the house and up the stairs without bumping into anything or making a sound.

 

Sylar knows _he's_ here. There's nowhere else he could possibly be right now, and the ex watchmaker is treated to a painful wringing of his internal organs at the realisation that Peter must have really spent Christmas day locked up in the hallows of his vacant family home. Christ, no wonder the guy fell into the depths of depression last year if _this_ was what he'd done for three whole weeks! It's uncomfortable just to think of it – so unlike the Peter Petrelli that is usually presented to the outside world – but at the same time this revelation only secures Sylar's motivation.

 

He can't help but think of that man in the past who couldn't go to bed this night without hugging every person in the room at least twice. It was like Christmas was just the excuse to give and receive the amount of touch that Peter craves all year round but never allows himself. So how could he possibly be faring right at this moment when he has absolutely none of the things that keep him running as a human being?

 

The sliver of light filtering out the bottom of an upstairs room calms Sylar more than he thought it would. Just that little sign of life, coupled with the aching heart of being a conflicted, condemned ally, is enough to reassure him further. It's after eleven at night by now, which means Peter has been alone for over twenty three hours of the day already. Surely that's _more_ than enough...? It certainly is for Sylar, anyway.

 

Apparently he was successful in approaching silently, as there is no sound from the other side of the door – Nathan's bedroom door, naturally – such as a furious little being readying for a fight. It feels like hours have passed since Sylar set his mind on this trip, and now that he's actually here it's all so close, so real. The thrill of the unknown, of causing some kind of disturbance in the way the next few weeks are set out before them, breathes beautifully through Sylar's body, and even as trepidation threatens to make him quit... he knocks his knuckles gently against the polished wood.

 

“Peter...?”

 

Silence. He waits. And waits. He's in no real hurry here. He might have worried that something unimaginably terrible had happened in there if said silence wasn't suddenly alert, armed and bristling. Who knew such a reaction could actually feel quite welcome in the face of nothing else?

 

“Peter?” Sylar calls again, aware that his voice sounds out of place when the rest of this universe is literally still and silent. But then, finally, for what feels like the first time in years although it's been barely a week, another human sound meets Sylar's ears.

 

“What are you doing here?” Peter growls from within the room, and Sylar's heart flutters: the man sounds angry alright, his voice husky and rough from crying for hours. “I said leave me alone.” It's a warning, the last chance to back off before things get ugly, but Sylar doesn't scare so easily. And he's most certainly not going to turn around and head back home after making it all this way. Partly for pride... and partly for Peter.

 

Experienced in the art of talking down unstable moods thanks to his childhood (his _own_ childhood) Sylar places a hand to Nathan's door and rests his forehead against it. Sylar knows he could argue and whine and say it's not fair to be abandoned like this again, call the guy out on his, frankly, worrisome behaviour, or just laugh in the face of it all... but he doesn't want to. The key is to be gentle, inoffensive and understanding. It only helps that these happen to be his true emotions at the moment.

 

“I know.” He concurs quietly. “But can you open up? It's important.”

 

There's another void in the conversation while Sylar's pulse pounds and Peter apparently mulls over his decisions. It's actually painful to compare this moment to the vision of carefree, young and happy Peter who opened presents with Sylar and the rest of the family this morning in his mind's eye. He wants to help. He _really_ wants to help, to salvage what they've been so tenderly building here in this nightmare and to stop his only companion from fading away into nothingness. Even if that means breaking Peter's precious arrangement. “Please?” Sylar adds.

 

Nathan's door stands resilient and mocking for almost too long before Peter's core goodness overcomes his stubbornness, and Sylar can actually feel the daggers being thrown at him dull their blades just slightly.

 

“Has someone found us?” Peter asks gruffly, dubiously, but with a slight twinge of hope. Sylar cringes. The guy had said not to bother him unless it was an emergency. He's not sure this counts, technically, but hopefully Peter will look past that. Later.

 

“No.”

 

“Did you find a way out...?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well what then?!” Peter snaps, impatient now and quickly getting angry again. “Are you hurt...?!”

 

It'squite amusing, amongst other things: the thought that Peter might put their time out on hold if Sylar had a boo-boo that needed tending. Why didn't he think of that earlier?! Although... actually...

 

“...Yes.” He confesses, hurting on the inside from too much loneliness, from getting too deep into a dead man's memories, not to mention Peter's second-hand pain and the state the guy has gotten himself into. This isn't what Peter meant when he asked though, and Sylar knows it, but he chooses to turn a blind eye for now.

 

His heart is thumping and his hearing is strained, so he catches the reluctant sound of springs creaking and the soft padding of socked feet on bare floorboards. Stepping back and bracing himself for a fist to the face, Sylar envisages his cellmate's approach. There's then the distinct sound of a chair being removed from the back of the door – ouch – and then finally the thing is pulled inward and there, at last, stands Peter Petrelli in the flesh rather than just imagination.

 

Sylar can't help but stare. In once glance it's obvious he's been crying, and that he hasn't been taking care of himself lately. He hasn't washed his hair or shaved his face in days, and even though he wears that same black, long sleeved t-shirt day in and day out, somehow it seems more tired now. Due to the man's untended appearance and the messy pile of blankets and food boxes strewn over the bed, it's safe to assume he's just been nesting here like a depressed teenager. Sylar only feels for him more. God, he looks so different than he did just this morning at the Christmas tree... which wasn't really this morning, obviously. It wasn't even this lifetime...

 

“Where are you hurt?” Peter asks shortly. At least he graciously seems to be putting his rage on the back burner Sylar notes, as the little man avoids his gaze while also quickly looking him over for a wound. Of course he won't find one, but Sylar doesn't even give him long enough to try. Once more he's overwhelmed with flashbacks from a lifetime of brotherhood, the past few years of fighting, and again reminded of his motivation for coming here tonight, and it's all actually too real and too scary and culminating right here before him, but he can't _not_ follow though now... Sylar has never been a man to back down due to fear. So he lunges on the little man without warning.

 

Instantly Peter struggles and panics in his arms but Sylar just holds on and waits, hopes, until the other man realises this isn't a fight or an attack. No. It's just a hug. Simple, sweet, innocent... nothing more. Once Peter falls still (probably in shock), Sylar allows himself to enjoy this rare, forbidden gem of a moment that both he and his companion have been starved for. This is better than yet another disregarded copy of 9th Wonders, for sure. Peter can't find this anywhere else, or replicate the sensation in any way. This is unique, special... a gift.

 

Peter feels more amazing than Sylar remembers: soft and warm and living, and although he's probably not showered for ages he's not grimy or unappealing at all, not in the slightest. Because he's _real_ , because he's consenting to this unorthodox embrace, and because he's letting himself be pressed to Sylar's aching chest without complaint. He can practically hear the empath's inner battle as if he were reading his mind: surprise, shock and outrage for this onslaught of affection on _this_ day of all days; for Sylar's unashamed attempt to claw his way into the good books; for the person Peter despises right now above all other being the bearer of the only sense of relief to be found in the world... at last, like a tingling sense of salvation, like a balm massaged soothingly over a burn, Peter relents. He needs this hug to hold him in one piece when he can't do it himself. So Sylar kindly squeezes the smaller man tighter when Peter finally lifts one hand and lays it flat over the centre of Sylar's back. It's not much, but it's enough.

 

“What are you doing?” He whispers into Sylar's shoulder, and the feel of the man's breath spawns goosebumps, even though a thick coat.

 

Sylar doesn't dare explain the truth, because he knows he'd have his neck snapped by admitting he was rifling through Nathan's memories all day until he couldn't bear this exile anymore, so instead he just reluctantly pulls back, sliding his hands up Peter's back to gently clasp his shoulders. He's not ready to let go completely. Not yet.

 

“Something stupid.” He says simply. “It's Christmas. Isn't this what people are supposed to do at Christmas?” He leaves it vague on purpose, the hug or the something stupid, because it's so much easier to oversimplify things than dig into that particular well of the confusing substance known to humankind as feelings.

 

Yes, it had been stupid. But it had also been a good choice, Sylar sees, as he visibly watches more familiar flecks of his soul rise to the surface, this man who lives for other people. It was as simple as a hug to re-charge the failing life batteries of Peter Petrelli, and within only this short time since the door had opened the paramedic seems to have ventured out from the depression that had been cloaking him then. Thank god. He now looks baffled, shaken and a little bit disgusted, yet he gazes up at Sylar as if he thinks he's dreaming or confused, that it doesn't quite make sense for him to have some kind of guilty reprieve on this day of mourning, and as if he is swithering between pushing Sylar down the stairs, or leaning back in for more.

 

It's extremely tempting to stand here in the bedroom of the man whose existence royally fucked things up between the pair, hugging until the sun rises tomorrow... but Sylar doesn't want to push his luck. He doesn't want Peter to hate himself for participating and no doubt turn it into more of an excuse to avoid Sylar for longer. So to spare him from having to make that choice, and them both from the awkwardness of waiting here in this in-between stage of not knowing what to say or do next, Sylar takes two steps back into the hallway, leaving Peter where he is, and tugs the door over between them.

 

His lips curve into a smile when he has only the last, tiniest glimpse of Peter through the closing crack in the door. He can't resist. It must be that festive spirit, after all. “Merry Christmas.” He hums warmly, tickling inside when Peter dazedly mouths the words back as if by accident, as simply as “hello” and “goodbye”, while he's still too conflicted to think it through or even find his voice.

 

Sylar doesn't need to hear anything more – it's written all over the younger man's face. Those unspoken words are all the reward Sylar needs for going so far out of his way for this, for putting himself on the line and, gratefully, not falling to his death for it.

 

Sylar weaves his way out of the Petrelli Mansion effortlessly this time, and the walk back to his apartment flies past. He keeps re-living it, his very _own_ Christmas memory this time, while he can still feel the ghost of Peter's body against his. He keeps seeing the guy's expression in that last moment and it stays with him through the entire journey, confirming that he definitely did the right thing tonight. The time for sharing, indeed.

 

He feels fully warmed now despite the brittle wind and neglected streets of this prison, and somehow the night doesn't feel empty any longer. As the buildings stretch taller around him and the fancy gates and gardens of the big homes slip away behind, Sylar hopes against hope that his touch has done the same good to Peter as Peter's has done to him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you liked this year's holiday oneshot ^.^ It's a little more bittersweet than it could have been, but doesn't that just encapsulate our favourite boys' relationship as a whole? X)
> 
> Thanks for reading, I'm hoping to have chapter 10 of "Tongues of Fire" up after Christmas, and I'm also still intending to get the fanvid trailer for it up soon too! Enjoy your holidays and I'll be back soon with more Peter and Sylar ^.^


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